


keep your lamp trimmed and burning

by evewithanapple



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kidfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 15:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10833843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: In its own odd way, letting himself be swept away has been the most comforting experience of his life.





	keep your lamp trimmed and burning

The first few weeks after Cassie comes home, she sleeps in a bassinet beside her parents’ bed. Neither Alex nor Richard is much inclined to sleep, even if the baby would let them for more than an hour at a time, and having her close at hand at least removes the need to make a trek down the hall whenever she cries for them. Still, each snuffle and hiccup sends them both- Alex especially – shooting upright in bed, frantically groping for the light switch and leaning over to make sure nothing’s wrong. Richard, the only one of them who’s accustomed to the jerky, unsettled rhythm of a newborn (albeit more than twenty years past) reminds Alex in the logical light of day that there’s no reason to be in constant fear for her – babies, after all, are more than eager to let their parents know when something’s wrong, and if she were ever in serious distress, they would undoubtedly hear about it within seconds. Alex, eyes heavy-lidded from lack of sleep (even when Cassie isn’t crying, insomnia still stalks at her heels) nods vaguely and lowers her head over Cassie as she nurses, stroking a finger feather-light along her cheek. Sometimes a cloud passes over the sun, momentarily casting their room into darkness, and Alex clutches Cassie a little tighter. Richard can read her thoughts on her face then: _don’t be scared. It can’t touch you. I won’t let it_. The baby gurgles, nuzzling against her mother, one hand opening and closing as though she’s learning the mechanics of her muscles and bones. Richard thinks about what he’ll teach her, when she’s old enough to learn. He thinks about what he’s going to leave out.

At night, though, it’s harder to be logical- even after Cassie begins to sleep for hours at a time rather than brief intervals and they finally agree to move her into the nursery. A monitor sits next to her crib, its twin residing on their nightstand just in case. Usually, Cassie’s cries are piercing enough that the monitor isn’t needed – she can be heard all through the house – but they leave it in place anyway, a silent concession to anxiety.

He lifts his head and blinks blearily at the clock: three-fourteen in the morning. Alex is next to him, asleep for once, her breath stirring the hair that’s drifted in front of her face. Richard looks back at the clock, trying to place the sound that woke him, then it comes again: a faint whimper, not quite a wail, but with the potential to develop into one if not addressed immediately. He rolls out of bed.

When he flicks on the light in the nursery and walks over to the crib, Cassie blinks up at him, eyes watery in anticipation of a cry that hasn’t yet come. Her pacifier is lying beside her – she must have inadvertently spit it out while she was sleeping. Perhaps that’s what woke her. When she sees Richard, she stretches both arms up, mouth wobbling pathetically as she wriggles her fingers. Richard leans down and slides a gentle hand under her head, nestling her into the bend of his elbow. “It’s all right,” he says. “I’m here.”

It occurs to him how very alone she must feel – how isolated in the comparative vastness of her crib. When Richard wakes in the middle of the night, he need only roll over and reach for Alex to be reassured that he has company in the darkness of the witching hour. All Cassie has is her stuffed animals and the far-off glow of her nightlight. Waking up at night must be, for her, an unwelcome re-entry into a world that seems very dark and very lonely. No wonder she cries.

He takes her to the rocking chair and sits, letting her grasp his pajama top in one tiny fist as he rocks her. Her eyes are mostly clear of tears now, and her eyelashes flutter against her cheek as she blinks again. Alex’s eyelashes, he thinks, over Alex’s eyes. To his (admittedly biased) gaze, she looks so much like her mother. He hasn’t yet picked out any aspects of his daughter that remind him of himself, and there’s gratitude in that. Let her be like her mother, fearless and forceful and bright. If there are to be frightening things in her life, let them be things she seeks out of her own accord. Don’t let her be haunted with visions of dead bodies and tall shadows and blacked-out eyes in old photographs. Let Alex’s promise be keepable: let her live a life free of shadow, if that’s what she chooses.

 _Cassandra_. Of course that’s what they named their daughter; how could they choose anything else? The cursed prophetess of Troy, the one who sees and knows all that will come to pass. Alex, he thinks, would gladly choose the priestess’s gift; even if no one would believe her, she would still want to _know_. Richard had briefly glanced over Greek mythology in his undergraduate years, and had wondered at the ancients and their concept of fate – if the gods had set everything in motion before they were ever born, what was the point of struggling? How, when worshipping a credo of such crushing nihilism, could they have enjoyed themselves so much? Or perhaps that was the key: once you’ve accepted the inevitable, it’s easier to enjoy the ride. Once you realize that this especially pushy reporter won’t stop calling, you might as well call back. Once you understand that she point-blank refuses to allow you to face the future – apocalyptic or otherwise – alone, you might as well give in and let yourself be carried away on the river of her determined, insistent affection. In its own odd way, letting himself be swept away has been the most comforting experience of his life.

Cassie yawns and stretches in his arms, eyelids drooping low. He starts to rise from the chair, but she stiffens almost immediately, voice rising in a whine that promises wailing if he attempts to return her to her crib. He sinks back into the chair and glances at the clock. Three-thirty-eight. Usually she lets herself be soothed back to sleep after ten minutes at the most, but it seems she’s feeling fractious tonight. He strokes her forehead, contemplating what to do next. Singing her to sleep has never been especially productive in the past – she’ll tolerate her mother’s gentle humming, but his own singing voice only ever provoked more tears. Still, it seems obvious that she wants company of some kind, and he has to lull her to sleep _somehow_. He casts his thoughts around, and settles on the one thing he’s sure he knows how to do.

“In 1921,” he begins “a woman named Margaret Murray published a book entitled _The Witch-Cult in Western Europe: A Study in Anthropology_. She had published several volumes prior to this, largely relating to Egyptian archaeology, but it was this book that would cement her reputation in anthropological circles . . .”

Alex had told him once that he had a voice for radio. He’d countered that what he actually had was a voice for lecturing, and he’d perfected it over many years. Still, it hadn’t always been especially well-received by his students, and more than once, he’d caught first-years napping through his lessons. He could only hope that his daughter would find the content similarly soporific.

“. . . at the time of the book’s publication, occultism was a popular pastime in certain European circles, and so she found an enthusiastic audience for her claims of a continual pagan practice in European society. While other established historians were critical of her claims, she nevertheless enjoyed a great deal of popularity . . .”

He’s given this lecture so many times, he can recite it from memory. It is, after all, somewhat central to his overall academic thesis: that the desire to believe something often bypasses the logical need for proof. While the specifics (namely, the lack of proof of the paranormal) have been tested in the past few years, he feels like the basic conceit is a valuable one. The details of his argument, however, appear to be lost on Cassie, who yawns again before snuggling deeper into her father’s arms, eyes closed. Her breathing is slow and even, and her grip on Richard’s top has slackened: she is, to all appearances, asleep again. He rises cautiously from the chair and, when his actions are met with no sound of protest, tiptoes across the room and returns Cassie to her crib. He picks up the pacifier and rubs it against his sleeve before returning it to her mouth, watching as she reflexively begins to suck in her sleep. He stands there for several moments longer, reassuring himself that she truly is asleep, then switches the light off and retreats back down the hall.

Alex stirs slightly as he slides back into bed next to her. “What’s up?” she asks, voice blurry with sleep. “Is she awake? Is everything okay?”

He slides an arm across her shoulders and over her back, drawing her close and pressing his nose against her hair. The room is dark again, but for the glowing red numbers on the clock. Out in the streets below, he knows streetlamps are glowing in the Seattle fog. Perhaps there is a cloud drifting across the moon. Here, in their house, they are safe.

“Everything’s fine,” he says, and she closes her eyes. He closes his as well. “Go to sleep.”


End file.
